


If your time to you is worth savin'

by Eligh



Series: Legends [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Len's a shit, Leonard Snart is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Mick's worried, Spoilers for 1x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5952163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Len maybe didn't think all things through when he tried to affect his own timeline. Mick's irritated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If your time to you is worth savin'

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose you don't really need to read the first in the series to follow this one, but c'mon, it's short.

Len waits in his quarters for an hour before he goes looking for Mick.

He’s not on the bridge with Jax and the Prof, not menacing Ray and Kendra in the medbay, not looming over Hunter’s shoulder or harassing Gideon, not even playing cards with Sara on the observation deck—though she does shoot Len a venomous look when he asks her if she’s seen his erstwhile partner and goes back to her game of solitaire with a flippant, “Don’t be obtuse, Leonard. It doesn’t suit you.”

Len glowers a little but she doesn’t blink. “Look in his quarters, dumbass,” she says, and moves a stack of cards over to a red King.

Len goes, her dismissal clear.

But he’s Captain Fucking Cold, not a wilting flower of a jilted lover, so he doesn’t knock on Mick’s door when he gets there. Instead he simply lets himself in, smirk firmly in place and turned up to eleven. He pulls out and perches himself upon the metal chair that sits at Mick’s desk—identical to his own just one wall over—crossing his leg at the knee and throwing his arm over the backrest. It opens his body up, making the muscles under his white t-shirt pop, and is usually enough of a move to at least earn himself a heated glance.

Mick, stretched out on the bunk, doesn’t rise to the bait. And after a moment more of silence, Len clears his throat. “Giving me the cold shoulder?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mick growls immediately, and Len’s eyebrows lift incredulously.

“Chill,” he says, though his smirk slips a hair. Redirect. Stay in control of the situation. “What’s got you so hot under the collar?”

Mick huffs out an annoyed breath and sits up. “Yer puns’re terrible. They make me wanna shoot things.”

“Well, as long as I don’t qualify as one of those things,” Len drawls. Mick cocks his head, looking thoughtful, and Len purses his lips in amusement. Mick would be much less fun of a—a friend—if the two of them didn’t honestly contemplate serious injury toward each other on occasion. But that wasn’t the point of this little têt-à-têt. So Len drops both feet with a thump to the metal underfoot and leans forward. “Why are you sulking?”

Mick sobers, glaring at the floor and saying nothing.

Well. If that’s how Mick wants it to be, then that’s enough of this. Len has his pride. He stands smoothly, his back straight, and lifts his chin. “Fine. If you’d like to be an adult, you know where to find me.”

He’s crossed the room and has one hand on the button to activate the door when there’s a creak of spring and a rustle of clothing—Mick sitting up on the bunk—and a grunt, a wordless appeal to stop. Len pauses expectantly, but doesn’t turn.

“Ya coulda erased yourself, Lenny,” Mick says finally, a low rumble that makes Len drop his hand back to his side. “That shit you pulled coulda—”

Len turns around at that, bristling, expecting to find anger and preparing to meet it with his own. But then that’s not it—or not all of it. Instead Mick looks more miserable than furious—though the rage is there; it always burns under Mick’s skin—and his fists are clenched tight on the sheets of his bunk like he’s barely holding himself on. Or no—holding himself back.

“It was for Lisa,” Len says dumbly, staring at Mick’s quivering hands, every iota of irritation evaporating instantly.

Mick shakes his head and Len forces himself to look up, to meet him face-on. “I know,” Mick says. “But I—” he swallows, and then, carefully, clearly: “I don’t want you to erase yourself. I like you like you are.”

“Oh, Mick,” Len sighs, dangerous affection blooming suddenly in his chest. He’s across the room and straddling Mick’s lap in the space of a blink; Mick’s hands leave the crumpled sheets in favor of grasping too tightly at his shirt, at his ass under his jeans. Len leans down and rests his lips lightly on the top of Mick’s shorn head. “It didn’t work, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, don’t do it again,” Mick rumbles into his chest. He’s almost begging; there’s a note of melancholy in his voice, something dancing along the edge of this relationship they don’t talk about. Len tips his head back and stares for a moment at the ceiling.

“Okay,” he says. He’s not sure if he’s lying quite yet; if he gets the opportunity to change his past—Lisa’s past—for the better, he’s still not sure what he’ll do. But for now: “Okay, I won’t.”

The growl this earns him is a pleased one, Mick’s hands flexing on him hard enough that he’ll have bruises tomorrow if he doesn’t let up, and he doesn’t plan to give Mick any reason to let up. “C’mere,” Mick says, tugging him insistently down, angling his face for a kiss, but Len’s got plans of his own and he slithers off Mick’s lap before shoving those tree-trunk legs apart and settling between them, nosing at Mick’s stomach. Mick’s breath hitches. “Jesus, Lenny, will ya?” he asks breathlessly.

In lieu of an answer, Len pushes Mick’s shirt up his chest before abandoning it in favor of attacking his fly. The buttons part with audible pops and Mick takes the hint, lifting his hips at the same time as he strips his shirt up and off, tossing it carelessly into a corner of his quarters.

He tends to go commando, so there’s nothing in the way when Len opens his mouth slightly and brushes a wet bottom lip over the ridge on the underside of Mick’s rapidly hardening cockhead.

“Fuck,” Mick says, leaning back on his elbows and looking down at Len with hooded eyes. He knows better than to grab at Len’s head. “How come ya only do it when I don’t ask?”

“Keeps the romance alive,” Len says lightly, letting his lips brush purposefully over the swollen flesh in front of him. “If you can hold off for ten minutes, I’ll let you fuck me.”

Mick whimpers; Len widens his mouth and starts consciously keeping track of time.

Six minutes and eleven seconds later, Mick becomes unsuccessful in his endeavor, but Len gives him points for effort.

“Next time,” Len says, shoving a pliant and panting Mick more fully onto the bunk and fishing momentarily between the mattress and wall for the bottle of lube they’d stashed there upon assignment of their quarters, “you’ll get inside me, Mick Rory.” He coats his fingers liberally and drops his hand, matching words to actions. “You’ll get me slick and put your fingers in me, your thick fingers, Mick. You’ll find my prostate—” Mick jumps and groans when Len does just that “—and fuck me loose, get me ready for your cock.”

Mick throws the crook of his elbow over his eyes, his mouth open, his legs spreading unconsciously, his cock valiantly hardening. It’s one of Len’s favorite sights, and he scrabbles one-handed at his zipper fly, so turned on he can barely get his pants down.

“You’ll,” he stutters, pulling his fingers out with a slurp and shoving his pants down just far enough to steady his dick. “You’ll barely fit, you’re so fucking—” Len’s voice breaks as he sinks in, and Mick keens. “Huge, Mick, you’re huge, you split me open, I—”

“Shut th’ fuck up and fuck me, ya mouthy shit,” Mick growls. Len leans forward and bites hard at his neck, wrapping his hand around Mick’s renewed erection, and laughs before snapping his hips.

“Whatever you say, dear,” he says, and conversation dissolves.

Later, with Mick wrapped around him and radiating far too much heat for Len to ever possibly fall asleep to, Len tilts his head down and presses a soft kiss to Mick’s forehead. Mick’s passed out—the man’s the most stereotypical specimen after a measly couple orgasms—and so Len feels fairly confident expressing those sappy sorts of emotions that he wouldn’t if Mick’s smoky blue eyes were open and aware.

“I’m sorry,” Len whispers, the ship’s air recirculator muffling his words even further. “I won’t leave you. I—I like you, too.”

A ghost of a smile drifts across Mick’s face and he pulls Len closer without opening his eyes. “Good t’know,” he says, and when Len stiffens, alarmed, Mick just holds him tighter. “Go t’sleep, Lenny,” he grumbles.

“I—”

“Shuddup,” Mick says.

Len does, though he watches Mick’s face carefully for long minutes after their exchange. Mick doesn’t seem perturbed by Len’s admission, in fact doesn’t so much as twitch away even when clearly drifting off, and so eventually Len closes his eyes, too. He’s asleep between one heartbeat and the next, and entirely misses it when Mick opens his eyes, leans forward, and breathes him in deep.

“Asshole,” Mick murmurs affectionately, and tucks his nose into the hollow at the base of Len’s throat before settling and falling asleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel that no one asked for! And that devolved into something vaguely pornish because I spend my nights off watching Prison Break and Wentworth Miller is unfairly attractive and I am a man of weak and awful moral fiber.


End file.
